


uncurling lifelines

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, also i think this is the first canon verse bellarke fic i've ever finished, alt title: resurgence of bellarke angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 05:21:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5993014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke returns. She and Bellamy learn to untie their hands and hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	uncurling lifelines

**Author's Note:**

> this is just ever so slightly above drabble status if i'm being nitpicky about it.
> 
> fic inspired by Aqualung's '7 Keys'. i highly recommend a listen if you want to mull over bellarke fics and gifs and spend three hours devolving into an emotional piece of lard. or just 5 minutes and 24 seconds, if you're just gonna hear the song once like normal people probably do.
> 
>  
> 
> (title from ‘Various Storms & Saints’ by Florence + the Machine)

 

 

 

**Seven minutes.**

 

He barely gets a glimpse of her face.

 

She gets to work the second she steps into Arkadia, hands full of herbs and bandages and needle and thread.

 

He doesn’t know what to do. Watching her work through the camp, turning from one wound to the next, attending to one need after another. Something rolls deep in the pit of his stomach. It’s almost like they’re back at the dropship, surrounded by makeshift parachute tents and crude structures made of branches and rope.

 

A flash of blonde hair, and she’s gone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Seven hours.**

 

She’s finally asleep. According to Raven, that is.

 

He is so tired. They all are.

 

He staggers into his tent and blinks, trying to orient himself and ensure he’s in the right place. He lays on his bed and thinks about ducking into her tent, just for a second or two.

 

He clamps down on the urge to convince himself she’s still here, and gives in to sleep’s welcoming beckon.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

**Seven days.**

 

Seven days since she returned.

 

He still can’t quite believe it. All he has to do is look to his left, and there she is — golden head tilted towards Monty, what little sunlight there is left in the day glinting off her blonde strands. Her hair’s gotten so long. It was one of the first things he’d noticed when he’d heard her call his name for the first time in three months, the roughened yellow strands now grazing her waist. She’s annoyed by it sometimes, he knows. It’s written all over her face every time she bends over the table in the med bay, the long waves cascading over her shoulder, partially obscuring her field of vision. Sometimes it gets caught in her clothing, especially when she’s shrugging her jacket on or off, or automatically reaching up to brush her bangs or beads of sweat out of her eyes.

 

She catches him looking, sometimes, when she’s extracting a particularly stubborn lock of blonde from the zipper or cuff of her jacket. She doesn’t falter, or blush, or any of the things he expects most other people would do. She just looks right back at him for a few moments, the two of them caught in some sort of silent standstill — completely different from the unspoken exchanges they used to have, and yet exactly the same. Then one of them blinks. The other looks away. The moment is broken.

 

Those looks are all they’ve said to each other since she came back.

 

It’s just as well, he supposes. He doesn’t quite know what he would want to say to her. There are so many things that need to be said. Most of the time, it just doesn’t feel like anything needs to be said anymore.

 

But sometimes, there are things that come to mind.

 

He wants to thank her for coming home, for saving their people, for saving him. He wants to shout at her for leaving, for staying in Polis instead of coming back with him. He wants to comfort her, forgive her for what she’s done, what they’ve had to do. He wants to reassure her that Jasper will smile at her again one day, that Raven can fix anything, including herself, and that Octavia understands now, and doesn’t hold Tondc against her anymore. He wants to shake her, and tell her every single thing he’s been frustrated by since she left and came back.

 

He looks at her turning to smile softly at Raven as the mechanic eases herself down onto the seat beside her. He turns away.

 

There’s time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Seventeen days.**

 

She’s settled into a routine. As much of a routine as their unpredictable lifestyle can afford, at least. She spends her time either in the clinic or on long gathering hikes, usually with Lincoln or Jackson. A few times a week, she spends a few minutes with Abby. She usually disappears after these short sessions, always unaccompanied. He’d timed her the first few times. She always returned within two hours, and always before nightfall.

 

He knows Abby is trying to persuade her to join the council. When it comes to both Earth skills and Grounder knowledge, she easily surpasses any of the Arkers — _Skaikru_. Except Lincoln and Octavia, of course. But as his sister tells him, they won’t be around for much longer. (His heart breaks, but the smile on his face is absolutely genuine. His magnificent, fierce, wonderful sister deserves so much more than grey-blue uniforms and guard duties and Chancellors.)

 

Her hair still bothers her.

 

She’s tried to shorten it herself, he can tell. The ends now brush against the bottom of her ribcage. They’re choppier, more uneven.

 

He runs into her at the gate when she’s on her way out for another solo venture. She pauses, turning to face him.

 

“Guard duty?” she asks, her husky voice reaching deep into his eardrums and pulsing straight into his bloodstream.

 

“Not for another six hours,” he answers. It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken to her in seventeen days.

 

She looks at him, blue gaze steady, before turning towards the gate again. He falls into step beside her, slinging his rifle over one shoulder to rest against his back.

 

They trek without stopping for about twenty minutes, with only the sound of their boots trudging against dirt and twigs to break the silence.

 

They end up at a small river, the bank littered with rocks and pebbles for the clear water to race and tumble over endlessly. She climbs up on a large rock without hesitation, not even looking to see if he’s following her lead. He does.

 

They sit, listening to the soothing quietness of trickling water and birds hidden by the trees, watching the sun as it slowly, slowly slings ever lower in the sky, streaking yellow-orange rays across the clouds.

 

She brushes her bangs out of her face for what seems to be the thirtieth time, huffing in annoyance at the strands that stubbornly refuse to stay in the braid hanging down her back.

 

He watches her, fascinated by the way the rays of the sun turn her hair into glowing amber. She stills, shoulders dipping from their usual ramrod stiffness as she looks out on the river. Her hands twitch in her lap. He wonders if she’s imagining what it would be like to draw this.

 

He reaches into his belt for the knife he keeps on him at all times, weighing it in his fingers before looking at her. “Can I?” he asks, glancing at her hair.

 

She turns her head to blink at him — once, twice. She slowly nods, and turns back towards her view.

 

He shifts slightly so he’s settled behind her, left hand carefully fingering the ends of her braid before gently undoing the ragged tie holding it together. For the next few minutes, all he knows is the feel of yellow silk, the fingers of his right hand curled tight around the handle of his knife as he manoeuvres the sharp blade with surety, moving through the long blonde locks unhurriedly.

 

He lays the blade aside when he’s finished, his fingers gingerly combing through the remaining tangles. He runs his hands through her hair one last time, cupping the ends of her hair for a few long moments before letting them fall down to rest against her shoulder blades. She exhales, long and slow, her shoulders rising and falling slowly with the movement. He wonders if her eyes are still open.

 

They walk back to camp the same way they’d come — side by side, in silence.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Seven weeks.**

 

She smiles at him now. Not the ones she used to give him in the days of their dropship camp — clouds of uncertainty swirling about, anchored around grey steel in her blue eyes, bluer than the clearest sky he can remember ever seeing. Not the ones that made his chest ache — unshed tears glazing everything a hazy, dull silver, her gaze still somehow landing on his with unfailing, unwavering accuracy.

 

These smiles are new and yet as familiar to him as Clarke is. The trust weaved into them is unsullied by doubt and tears.

 

They’re getting used to more physical contact now. It’s not that easy to avoid on the ground, as they’d already learned long ago. The only way towards survival is _together_ — everyone helps everyone. They hug, sometimes; when she’s going out on a diplomatic mission, when he returns from a hunting trip. Carefully, as if they’re both made of glass. He often finds himself resting a hand on her shoulder in thanks for stitching up a cut on his arm, or letting his shoulder brush against hers as they wait in line at mealtimes. They have almost all their meals together now, sometimes with Raven or Monty or both. He’s missing his little sister so much. The company helps.

 

He likes it just as much when it’s just the two of them. They don’t always talk much. But the silences feel just as comforting to him as the sardonic jokes and hushed laughter do. They talk over Council issues a lot. It’s easier to do when Clarke’s the only one there to listen. His thoughts come to him a lot clearer. Not half-formed and stuck, like they always feel without her around. Discussing things privately helps them consolidate their arguments, too. Not that they’re always in agreement. But it helps to have someone on your side when you’re facing down a table full of adults used to being in charge on a controlled space station.

 

He sees the way Abby presses her lips together when they back each other up during meetings, her sharp gaze rapidly darting between them. He sees the way Kane breathes deep, reasoning through their logic for himself, attempting to find the balance between what their people know and what they need to do. He knows he’s not just a janitor to any of the Arkers; not anymore. Clarke had snuffed that part of him right out the day she’d told him _“we make the rules”_.

 

He knows half the Council think they’re together. He doesn’t say anything to contradict them. Neither does she.

 

He does, however, roll his eyes when Raven elbows him in the ribs one night at dinner and tells him none too politely to “get a move on, dumbass”.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Seventy days.**

 

“Probably best if we go down to Tondc sometime next week,” she muses as they approach the river. He can hear the steady stream of water now; it’s been getting stronger as they ease into the warmer months. “It’s been three months. We need to ensure that Trikru are holding up their end of the agreements.”

 

He frowns as he easily steps over a large root, reaching out to touch her elbow, making sure she sees the obstacle and overcomes it smoothly. “Three months? It hasn’t even been two.”

 

A crease appears on her forehead, highlighted by the warm sunshine that falls upon them as they emerge from under the trees onto the bank of the river. “We sealed those agreements my first week on the Council.”

 

He raises a dark brow at her as they make for their rock. “Which was seven weeks ago.”

 

The crease on her forehead deepens as she puts out her hands to steady herself for the climb up — one on the rock, one in his own calloused palm. Her brows draw even closer as her nose scrunches slightly in confusion. “How long have I—”

 

“Ten weeks,” he answers, settling beside her atop the familiar, roughened gray surface. “Seventy days.”

 

She’s silent for a long moment, eyes flickering across the rippling surface of the river.

 

“I was away for three months.”

 

He looks at her then, slightly stunned. They have no qualms telling each other almost everything and anything. They’re closer now than they’ve ever been. But up until now, as much as they’ve talked over and over about Polis and Azgeda and Mount Weather and the Council and his sister and her mother and Lexa and the hundred, the one thing they never spoke of was her three-month disappearance after they’d taken down the Mountain.

 

He waits, watching her carefully. “I was on my own for ninety days.” _I know,_ he wants to tell her. Her chin trembles slightly, and she presses her lips together. “Do you know how I know that?”

 

His eyes remain trained on her. She finally looks at him, dead in the eye. “I counted. I counted them all, Bellamy. Every single one.” He’s unable to tear himself away, sinking deeper into her gaze. “Each day was worse than the one before, and I counted them all.”

 

He’s almost afraid to move or speak. All he can see, all he can feel and taste and touch is her face in front of his, familiar and scarred and _Clarke_.

 

His breath catches when her fingers come up to brush along the shadow of stubble along his jaw, right before she leans in to press her lips to the hollow just under his cheekbone. “Thank you,” she tells him, low and soft, her breath drifting across his skin like a fog.

 

“For what?” he manages through parted lips.

 

She pulls back then, and smiles at him. The one that resonates all throughout her eyes in the clearest blue and strikes a chord of pure warmth deep within him — his favourite kind.

 

“For helping me lose count.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Seventeen weeks.**

 

She’s in the middle of their tent, the bare skin of her back awash with warm glow of candlelight. He lays his knife flat on the mat, combing his fingers through her hair.

 

“All done,” he tells her, smiling as he cups the ends of her hair before letting them fall on her shoulder blades. His hand smooths over the creamy expanse of her back. “Need anything else?”

 

She turns to look at him over one bare shoulder, returning his smile with one of her own — his favourite kind. “I’m good.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know how the rest of s3 is going to play out, but in my head, no matter what happens, bellamy and clarke will always find a way back to each other. whether it's romantic or not. though i highly, highly prefer the romantic option. 
> 
> thank you for reading my little stroke of emotional inspiration! comments always welcome because emotional wallowing should never be performed alone.


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